


Addendum

by panpinecone



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Accidentally High, Blood and Gore, Guilt, Loss of Control, M/M, Necrophilia, Self-Hatred, Temple of Procreation (Red vs. Blue), woundfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-08-27 10:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16700824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panpinecone/pseuds/panpinecone
Summary: What happened after the fall is between Felix and Locus. Or it would be, if corpses kept secrets.





	1. Chapter 1

He’s not sure why he does it.

Closure, perhaps. There's something final about going to the base of the tower and seeing the way Felix’s body is sprawled out, limbs bent and armor cracked. If his helmet were removed, his face would likely match; bent nose, cracked skull.

Locus isn’t certain he wants to confirm that visual. He wants to put the last few years behind him, not dwell on Felix’s ugly death and how much he may ( _or may not_ , Locus curses himself for thinking) have deserved it.

He doesn’t need to see Felix’s face, he’s already having far too many emotions as it is. Confirming the corpse’s existence is enough.

He turns to leave.

A pulse rumbles through the air. He has a moment of warning, a few seconds with all his senses on alert, readying against any imminent threat.

And then it’s all stamped out.

There’s no way he could’ve prepared for the way his senses are being flooded by static, nor the way his very skin feels like it’s melting right off his muscles. He knows that’s impossible, he really does, but suddenly it’s difficult to know anything.

He doesn’t know anything.

All he knows is...

He turns around.

All he knows is he needs to see Felix’s face. Needs to see all of him. Needs—

He shuts his eyes and shudders where he stands. What he _needs_ is to get as far away as he can. Run and never look back.

_Escape_.

It’s his last lucid thought.

He’s on the ground, crawling forward, and the only reason he can tell is because Felix’s body grows closer and closer every time Locus blinks. Is he blinking? He has no idea, but he must be. Why else would everything be so choppy, like watching a damaged video that skips every other frame?

Everything takes on an unreal quality. Is he dreaming? Hallucinating? He doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think much at all. At least he thinks he doesn’t. Paradoxical.

It isn’t until he’s leaning over Felix, pulling off his broken helmet, that he remembers that’s where he’s been crawling towards. He distantly remembers not wanting to see Felix’s face, but that was so long ago, his opinion must have changed since then. He’s had plenty of time, how long has it been?

The helmet’s off and there’s Felix.

Locus was right.

He was right and he’s too... too whatever-he-is to feel any type of way about it. He’s more objective than he’s ever been, as objective as he’s always wished he could be.

Felix is a mess. Objectively speaking.

Very bloody. Bruised. Definitely bent and cracked. Locus wouldn’t be surprised if there was brain matter coating the inside of his helmet, but he doesn’t care enough to check. He tosses it aside and moves his hands down to Felix’s armor. He’s taking it off, piece by piece, but not because he wants to.

It’s just something he’s doing.

He wishes he knew how much time has passed, then remembers his HUD. He checks it, then promptly forgets what it said.

He’s halfway done with stripping Felix. Most of the armor’s gone and the undersuit’s partially off.

Locus doesn’t know why. He keeps going anyway.

His mind feels surprisingly blank for all the thoughts racing through it. Or sluggishly dripping. Can thoughts be both fast and slow? Maybe it’s his mind that’s slow, unequipped to deal with such fast thoughts.

He hasn’t figured it out by the time Felix is laid bare below him, and his hands need something to do so they go to his own armor. Now he has more time to figure it out.

Figure what out? He can’t remember.

It must not have been important.

He looks down at Felix as his hands work.

The rest of him matches his face. Dislocated, torn, pale. Paler than usual. There’s an open gash a few inches above his left hip. Locus interrupts his stripping to bring a hand to the wound and finds that the blood’s still warm. He’s always impressed at how well Armor Lock can preserve its users’ bodies.

He returns to his own armor, shedding the last of it once he pulls off his helmet.

He still doesn’t know why.

He’s settling onto Felix, pressing their bodies flush together, uncaring of the blood between them or the sickly crackle of ribs. Felix is still warm and that’s all Locus could ask for; it’s been so long since he’s felt another person’s warmth— really _felt_ it, not just been aware of it.

He leans up and stares at Felix’s face again. Anger, fear... Maybe a silent accusation there too. Locus wonders what exactly that accusation is.

Was.

Is?

That’s more wondering than Locus can manage. He lies back down and nuzzles into Felix’s neck. He imagines the warmth won’t last much longer, which saddens him more than he expects it should.

He shifts and pulls Felix closer. The movement makes him realize that he’s hard. It’s as confusing as everything else that’s happening, so he takes it in stride. He moves his hips against Felix, dragging himself along the slowly cooling skin and further smearing the blood. His dick catches on the edge of Felix’s wound and he changes the angle of his hips, then thrusts again.

Warmer. Softer. It’s nice.

He doesn’t think about it.

He only does it. Enjoys it. Fits his body against Felix’s and lets himself forget everything he’s been trying to. Santa’s reveal, the entirety of Chorus, the things that had led them there. But not Felix.

Or especially Felix. If he forgets what made Felix who he really was, isn’t that like forgetting him completely? Without all those things, he’s an empty shell of himself. As empty as his body, battered and limp, growing colder and stiffer with every passing moment.

Locus comes, his semen coating Felix’s insides and mixing with the pooled blood. His hips don’t stop. He doesn’t want them to. If they stop then it’ll all be over. He wants to hold on to the mindlessness as long as he can. He wants to be numb, physically and mentally.

Emotionally.

It’s not a surprising realization. He’s wanted to be an unfeeling machine for years, how can he turn the opportunity down now?

It won’t last, that’s one of the few things he still knows. He needs to make the most of it while it does. When it’s over, he’ll face what he’s done. But he doesn’t want to think about that, it’s something for after.

Felix, their embrace, the steady pleasure... It’s for now.

He keeps fucking Felix, or his wound— _is there a difference?_ —and hoping that it doesn’t make him more of a monster than he already is.

 

* * *

 

“—aren’t best friends awesome? You ever miss Felix? Hey, I’m orange, just like your last partner! Cool ship, by the way—”

Locus doesn’t hear the rest. Blinding static overcomes his senses and it’s almost like he’s there again, at the base of the Communication Temple, fucking Felix’s corpse like some kind of rabid beast.

He doesn’t know how long he’d spent there, desperately clinging to the fleeting comfort the Temple of Procreation brought him. The way his mind had ceased to work was a blessing, a special kind of high that only ancient alien technology could induce in an entire planet’s population.

He distracts himself from the memory, interrupting Grif with, “I don’t remember you being... Like this.” It’s the first non-Felix-related thought that comes to mind, and the best he could hope for considering how quickly his mind jumps back to Felix-related thoughts.

In a way, he knows that what he did wasn’t his fault. He’d skimmed the reports. Everyone had done things they regretted, with people they regretted, some more than others. Locus did nothing he could’ve avoided.

That hadn’t stopped him from studiously avoiding the reports’ approximations of how long the Temple’s mind-altering effects had lasted. He knows he’d stayed there, lost in Felix, for a long time. If he’d continued past when he could’ve stopped...

“ _Please_ stop talking,” he says, and the sentiment’s only partially aimed at his new companion.

What happened isn’t worth dwelling on. Lots of things aren’t worth dwelling on. Not how he’d felt calmer than he had in years, or how hot and velvety Felix’s insides had been, or how he might’ve stayed far past the return of his higher cognitive functions, just to keep burying himself in them over and over again.

“ _Grif?”_ he asks, and yes, Grif is still talking, completely oblivious to Locus’s internal crisis.

He’s almost grateful for the way Grif jumps from thought to thought, question to question. It makes it less conspicuous that the mention of Felix rendered him speechless. Trying to keep up with the constant stream of babbling also makes it harder to brood over what a monster he is, so he makes an effort and focuses on maintaining the makeshift conversation.

“This is gonna be a long trip, isn’t it?”


	2. Chapter 2

The timeline has to be preserved, no matter what.

That’s what Lavernius Tucker told him.

The explanation had been rambling, nonsensical, and Locus is uncertain he’ll come any closer to understanding it once the whole incident is over with. In fact, he’d initially had half a mind to write the whole thing off as an elaborate ploy to confuse and hinder him, or perhaps turn him against Felix.

But then his memories resurfaced and he couldn’t deny their authenticity. Tucker was right. Locus had been reliving them. He’s already done all this.

He’s already betrayed Felix.

And he has to do it again.

“ _Don’t fuck with the timeline_ ,” were Tucker’s exact words. “ _Like the butterfly effect and shit. Don’t. Change. Anything. Be your old asshole self._ ”

It’s...

Easier said than done.

Better said, it’s _awful_.

Locus is fairly sure that any progress he’s made on his road to psychological recovery has been undone twice over. It had been one thing to commit a multitude of despicable acts while believing them justified, it’s another thing to commit them while believing— Well, the same thing, but for different reasons.

In truth, the only way he can stomach it is by telling himself that none of it’s _real_. He’s simply going through his memories, more vividly than ever before. It’s nothing he hasn’t come close to during any given night of sleep.

He’s resolutely stopped himself from speculating further. As far as he’s concerned, it’s all just memories. The alternate timelines Tucker mentioned are exaggerations, an over-imaginative exercise in quantum physics. Nothing concrete, nothing _real_. It’s all in their minds.

The thought doesn’t make his newfound duty any less harrowing, but he has to cling to what few shreds of relief he can find, especially as he approaches the memories he’s dreaded most.

He goes through the motions. He repeats the words he’d spoken, loses to Agents Carolina and Washington despite knowing every move they’ll make, lets Felix pull him from the rubble and fly them to the Communication Temple.

It’s coming. His betrayal, Felix’s death, the Temple of Procreation...

He’s not sure he can get through it a second time. The nightmares are one thing, but this?

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Everything happens too quickly, and it’s all he can do to simply drag himself from point to point, like a performer following cues, delivering lines before progressing to his next scene.

The desire to stop Felix—to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him—is overwhelming, but Locus stays put and watches him dig himself deeper and deeper, finally backing himself into a corner and literally toppling from the edge.

From there, it isn’t difficult to take the sword and give the Reds and Blues his parting words.

The difficult part is what comes next.

He could get on a ship and leave. He _should_. After all, he never had a real reason to stay on the planet aside from getting some closure, but he’s gotten plenty of that now. More than he’ll ever know what to do with. There’s no way the butterfly effect can extend to something so...

So...

.....

No, he hasn’t gone through everything a second time only to balk at the last possible moment. He’s almost done. From then on, things will be infinitely easier. All he has to do is ensure a preserved timeline before letting himself rest.

He won’t even have to do it himself. Not really. The Temple of Procreation’s influence was impossible to fight, every report on the incident had said so.

It’s with that reassurance in mind that he makes his way to Felix’s broken corpse and resolves himself to the inevitable.

The first time, he’d done little more than stand by Felix’s side, struggling with an odd mixture of emotions before walking away. This time, he stays there, unwilling to leave.

He doesn’t think he could bear to come back if he starts walking away.

It takes longer than he’d remembered, but eventually it happens. The air hums with alien energy and suddenly he’s hot all over. He rips at Felix’s armor, wishing to put the ordeal behind him as quickly as possible.

Maybe he can close his eyes and let the Temple of Procreation do the rest of the work. Even now, he can feel the effect it’s having on his mental faculties, stripping away the weakest of his thoughts and making an unintelligible mess of the rest. The fact that he can comprehend it’s happening at all is a testament to how extensively he’s dwelled on the phenomenon.

And then, much too soon, that’s gone as well.

It’s just him and Felix, alone again.

Locus wants to cry.

Instead, he pulls off Felix’s helmet and moves on to the rest of his armor. He’s already seen Felix’s face, there’s no need to linger on it, not when his true goal is so near.

Piece after piece, the armor comes off. First Felix’s, then Locus’s.

From there, it’s nothing but a matter of letting his instincts take control. Pressing close, thrusting in— There’s no point in putting it off, is there?

Felix’s insides are as warm as Locus remembers them. Maybe warmer. They’re wet and slippery and everything that’s haunted him since he first did this. They’re noisy too, something he’d mercifully forgotten. Every one of his thrusts has them clinging to each other and to him, making sickening sounds each time he pulls out and pushes back in.

He’s not sure he can speak coherently, but he tries anyway.

“’M sorry,” he pants, forcing himself to direct the words at Felix’s unblinking face. “Sorry...”

Felix can’t hear him, but that’s alright. Felix can’t know what’s happening either, which is consolation enough.

Locus holds Felix’s rapidly cooling body close and carries on fucking his insides, coating them in semen over and over again, until he doubts he has any left.

He doesn’t stop.

It’s the Temple’s influence. It’s what he told himself before and it’s what he tells himself now.

_Don’t. Change. Anything._


End file.
